Chapter 40
FORTY
TYLER
It was later that night at Tyler’s house, and the whole place had that post-crisis stillness as if the walls were holding their breath.
Emma had taken a bath, hair damp and smelling like strawberry shampoo, and Tyler had read to her longer than usual. Longer than she technically needed. Longer than he technically could manage without his voice going rough.
But he couldn’t stop. It was almost as if words could stitch the evening back together. As if he could build a fence around her fear.
When he finally tucked the blanket up to her chin, Emma’s eyes tracked his face instead of the book.
“Are you gonna make her stay?” she asked, voice small.
Tyler’s chest tightened.
Emma swallowed hard, clutching her teddy bear tighter. “I don’t want her to leave…”
Tyler didn’t need her to add like Mom did to know that’s what she meant.
He sat on the edge of the bed, picking the right words.
“I can’t make anyone stay,” he said gently. He hated the truth even as he offered it. “I can’t promise you that.”
Emma’s face pinched, and Tyler hurried on before the fear could swallow her.
“But what I can promise you is this,” he said, leaning closer. “I love you. And I will always be here. Always. No matter what.”
Emma blinked fast, then nodded once, like she was filing it away in the place she kept all her emergency truths.
“I hope she stays,” Emma whispered.
Tyler brushed a kiss over her forehead. “Me too.”
Emma rolled onto her side, teddy tucked under her chin. “Night, Dad.”
“Night, kiddo.”
Tyler turned off the lamp, left the door cracked the way she liked it, and walked down the hallway with his mind a tangled mess.
He knew he’d reacted badly to Robyn’s news.
It had hit something deep and ugly, a trigger he hadn’t expected to still have teeth. A visceral reaction he’d barely been able to stop once it started—his body already bracing for loss before his brain could catch up.
He headed to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and grabbed a beer he didn’t actually want. Then he carried it out to the front porch and lowered himself onto the wooden swing.
The night air was cold enough to clear his head, but not cold enough to scrub away the guilt.
He’d been doing well. He was doing well. He’d built a good life for Emma. A stable one. A safe one.
But he hadn’t built much for himself.
He’d told himself it was fine. That he didn’t need anything extra. That being Emma’s dad was enough because it was, it always would be, but some nights, when the house was quiet and Emma was asleep, he could feel the empty space where “someone” was supposed to fit.
So, he filled it with fiction. With other people’s love stories. With worlds that could never hurt him.
And then Robyn had walked into his life, and he’d wanted her so badly it scared him.
Tyler stared out at the street, the porch swing creaking softly beneath him, beer resting untouched on the step.
Headlights swept across the lawn as a car pulled into the driveway.
Tyler stilled. Robyn parked, cut the engine, and sat for a second like she was gathering herself.
When she finally stepped out, she was bundled in a sweater and jeans, ankle boots scuffing the gravel.
Her hair was pulled back, but loose strands had escaped.
Her eyes were red, as if she’d been crying—or trying not to.
Tyler stood before she even reached the steps.
Robyn took two steps toward the porch and then stopped, her breath visible in the cold.
Tyler didn’t wait for words. He went down the steps and wrapped her in his arms.
Robyn made a broken little sound, wrapping her arms equally around him, leaning into him like an anchor.
“I’m sorry,” Tyler said into her hair, voice rough. “Robyn, I’m so sorry.”
Robyn shook her head against his chest, but it was the kind of shake that didn’t mean no—it meant she didn’t know what to do with the feeling.
“I feel like it’s my fault,” she whispered, voice thick. “Emma running. I… if I hadn’t—”
“No.” Tyler pulled back just enough to look at her. “No. Don’t do that.”
Her eyes glistened.
Tyler’s throat tightened. “That wasn’t you,” he said firmly. “That was me. I overreacted. I put adult fear in the air, and Emma breathed it in. That’s on me.”
Robyn blinked hard. “Tyler…”
He exhaled, trying to steady himself. “Come sit with me?” he asked quietly. “We should talk. While she’s asleep.”
Robyn nodded, wiping under one eye with the heel of her hand. “Okay.”
He guided her up the steps and inside, moving like the house was made of glass. He kept his voice low, every instinct tuned to Emma’s door down the hall.
In the kitchen, he set the beer back in the fridge and reached for the wine instead—because this felt like a wine conversation.
“White or red?” he whispered.
Robyn’s laugh came out shaky. “Whatever you have.”
Tyler poured her a glass, then grabbed the throw blanket off the couch and motioned toward the porch again. It was quieter out there. Safer. Less chance of waking Emma.
They stepped back outside and settled onto the swing, Robyn tucked under the blanket with her wine cradled in both hands. Tyler sat close enough that his shoulder brushed hers. He could feel her warmth and the tremor she was still trying to hide.
For a minute, neither of them spoke.
The porch light cast a soft circle around them. The street beyond was dark and still. Somewhere down the block, a wind chime clinked.
Tyler stared at his hands, then finally said what he’d been avoiding for years.
“Emma’s mom left when Emma was little,” he began, voice low. “You know that.”
Robyn nodded, her gaze fixed on her wine.
Tyler swallowed. “What you don’t know is… it didn’t just break my heart. It broke my sense of safety.” He let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, except there was no humor in it. “I didn’t realize how much I built my whole life around preventing that from happening again.”
Robyn’s eyes flicked to him.
“I convinced myself I was fine,” Tyler said. “That I’d healed. That I’d moved on.” His jaw tightened. “But the truth is, I just stopped letting myself want anything, anyone, that could leave.”
Robyn’s fingers tightened around her glass.
Tyler looked down at the porch boards. “And then you showed up,” he said quietly. “And you made me want something again.”
He shook his head, frustration flashing at himself more than anyone.
“So when you said Yale wanted you—when you looked happy about it—my brain went, There it is. She’s leaving.
It’s happening again. And I…” He closed his eyes briefly.
“I hated that feeling so much I tried to kill it before it could kill me.”
Robyn’s voice was soft. “By pushing me away.”
Tyler’s throat tightened. “Yeah.”
The swing creaked gently beneath them.
Robyn stared out at the street for a beat, then spoke, her voice steadier than her eyes.
“My parents have expectations,” she said. “Not the normal kind. The… impossible kind.”
Tyler turned toward her fully, listening.
Robyn swallowed. “When Krista left—when I was sixteen—everything shifted. The house got quiet in a different way. And suddenly it felt like it fell to me to be… perfect.” She gave a small, sad smile. “I did the extra foreign language classes. The piano lessons. SAT prep. All of it.”
Tyler’s brow furrowed. “Because you wanted to?”
Robyn hesitated. “Partly. I am driven. I like achieving things.” Her gaze dropped to her glass. “But also because it made them proud. And because if I was perfect, maybe the family wouldn’t crack any more than it already had.”
Tyler felt something twist in his chest.
“Being a professor at Yale is a huge part of my identity,” Robyn continued.
“It’s proof I did it. Proof I didn’t disappoint anyone.
Proof that I’m… enough.” Her voice wavered.
“And writing?” She huffed a tiny laugh. “Writing under a pen name is easier than being me. My pen name doesn’t have parents.
My pen name doesn’t have a department chair.
My pen name doesn’t have to be the good daughter. ”
Tyler reached out without thinking and covered her hand with his. Her fingers were cold.
Robyn looked at their hands, seeming at war with herself. “I don’t want to lose you,” she admitted.
Tyler’s chest tightened. “I don’t want to lose you either.”
They sat in that truth for a moment.
“What do you actually want, Robyn?”
Robyn’s eyes filled again, but she didn’t look away this time.
“I want you,” she said, voice small but certain. “And I want Emma. And I want… this.” She gestured vaguely, like the whole town was included. “And I also want to be proud of my work. I want to build the class. I want to teach. I want to not feel like I’m throwing myself away to keep someone else.”
Tyler nodded slowly.
She swallowed, blinking back tears. “I don’t know what it looks like yet,” she whispered. “I don’t know how to fit it all together.”
Tyler squeezed her hand gently. “Then we figure it out,” he said, voice steady. “Not tonight. Not perfectly. But together.”
Robyn exhaled a shaky breath.
The swing creaked softly, and Tyler leaned his forehead against hers for just a second. They didn’t solve everything, but for tonight, they chose each other.